


If beauty is terror (then what is desire?)

by this_angel



Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst, How Do I Tag, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, My First AO3 Post, Oneshot, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Francis Abernathy, POV Richard Papen, Pining, Platonic Relationships, Pre-Relationship, Quiet, Smoking, Yearning, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:41:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26173648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/this_angel/pseuds/this_angel
Summary: In which Richard comes home to find Francis in his bed, but not in the sexy way.(or maybe a little in the sexy way)
Relationships: Francis Abernathy & Richard Papen, Francis Abernathy/Richard Papen
Comments: 5
Kudos: 68





	If beauty is terror (then what is desire?)

It’s a Thursday night and Richard, struggling to balance his extra books and groceries, cannot wait to collapse onto his bed. 

“Francis?” 

Bewildered, Richard did a double-take at his unexpected guest, resting his hip against the doorjamb. 

“What are you doing here?” 

There Francis lay, pretty as a pin-up, sprawled across the narrow mattress. Richard made the entirely objective observation that the soft twilight outside made him seem flawless, young and perhaps a touch angelic if one didn’t know any better.  
The other looked up in greeting, smoke spilling from his dazed smile to join the haze collecting towards the ceiling. 

“Haven’t the faintest, dear,” he sighed, “Just wanted to see you.” 

Richard surreptitiously eyed Francis as he entered his room, kicking the door shut behind him. He did not look seriously injured or concussed and he could not identify any obvious signs of panic, although Richard surmised that he could have, very probably had indeed, concealed such ailments from him. So, he just asked. 

“Everything alright?” 

There was a low rumble of assent from the bed. Richard shrugged, turned his back and began to deposit his pickings onto his desk, leaning forwards to crack open the window with the hopes that the crisp evening air would drive the thickening smog in his room out. 

Francis watched Richard’s back as he moved about his room, putting it to rights. He was almost reminiscent of his mother, he decided. He evoked the same kind of organised calm that she carried whenever she busied herself with menial tasks. It was comforting. 

“You’re comforting.” 

“Sorry,” Richard turned a little towards Francis, his ministrations coming to a halt. “I beg your pardon?” 

“Said you’re comforting.” Francis mumbled, rolling his head to the side from where it had rested in the dip of the mattress.  
From here, he could see the line of Richard’s back tense as he angled his head towards the bed to give Francis and uncertain smile. 

“Er,” 

“Ah, forget it.”  
Francis curled in upon himself, arms coming up to cradle his ribcage, cigar ash tingling on his fingertips and spoiling the sheets.  
He drew his legs in like a babe. It didn’t soothe him. 

Suddenly, the room became frigid and he cringed from it, the small uncertain parts of him clamouring to berate him and make him doubt whether this, paying Richard a visit, had been a good idea after all. 

“Shut the window, will you?” 

The window was shut, and the room was still. 

Through half-shut eyes, Francis watched as Richard crossed the room to him and pried the stump of the cigar from his lax fingers. The ghost of his touch lingered on his fingertips, as if Richard himself had reached deep into his chest and grazed something there. 

Maybe his heart. 

Or maybe not, he quickly thought, paranoid that Richard might have suddenly developed telepathic powers. Francis could only look on with glazed eyes. 

Then Richard was there again, coming into focus, on the edge of the bed peering down at his form, a quaint-cute-concerned expression furrowing his handsome brow. Out of instinct, Francis leered at him from where he reclined, smirking. That smoothed his dear boy’s face right out, replacing it with a fondly exasperated squint. 

Satisfied, Francis allowed himself another look. The faint glow from the window threw Richard’s face into sharp relief and he wanted so desperately to touch it. 

Slowly, clumsily, he drew onto his elbows. 

“Come,” 

Richard obliged, perching on the very edge of the mattress next to Francis’ hip.  
The motion jostled Francis a little and he rolled with it, rocking closer to where he sat. Immediately, a myriad of images burst from his subconscious, parading themselves before him in hazy saccades, courtesy of his overactive imagination and unchecked yearning for contact; him having moved somehow to his head on Richard’s lap, the warm weight of a hand carding gently through his hair, a soothing palm running up and down his side, knuckles brushing against his cheek and catching on the tears that he forbids to well up inside of him. 

The ghost of a kiss on the curve of his jaw. The gentle press of Richard’s hands circled around his waist. The blossom of warmth. 

They surge one after the other and Francis became lost in it, eyes slipping shut. 

Francis was worrying him. 

Richard had though that they, Henry, Camilla, Charles, Bunny and perhaps even him by extension were impenetrable, unreachable. Yet as he sat next to Francis’ form, it seemed so frail and eerily small.  
Stripped of the bravado and airs that they carried almost easily as breathing, Francis struck something in him that rendered him stupefied. He was just a boy. They all were. Consumed by vice as they were, their image as untouchable and elite was nothing more than the safety and security that money could give them. 

Here, Francis was just the same as him. A friend in distress. Nothing more than a friend he asserted to himself, but someone who Richard was obviously going to attempt to console. 

He laid a hand gently on Francis’ exposed calf from where his trousers had hitched and rubbed it in what he hoped was a soothing manner, up and down. His fingers found their way under the trouser leg, as he carefully watched Francis’ vacant face. Francis blinked at him and said nothing. 

The silence was unnerving. 

Then up Francis sprang, something skin to desperation lining his eyes and trembling hands as they fumbled for Richard. All too quickly, he had Richard caged in against the mattress, knees on either side of where Richard was sitting, fluttering hands resting atop his shoulders. 

Richard, unsurprised, placidly watched Francis’ frantic face and wondered what would happen next. He had figured something of this sort would have happened soon enough.  
The mannerisms and rhythms of Francis, as well as the other boys and Camilla were as easy to read to him as breathing, or had become as such once they’d allowed him long enough to study them.  
Would he kiss him? A reprise, an echo of what had almost happened the last time Richard had found himself alone with Francis. But Richard had no doubt something was definitely amiss this time. 

It was jarring, then. 

The abrupt tenderness with which Francis lowered his forehead to meet his.  
Their breaths mingled once. 

Then twice. 

Richard raised his eyes from where they lingered on Francis’ lips to the rest of his face. Francis’ eyes were closed and, profile lit from the glow of the outside, his eyelashes cast enchanting shadows across the planes of his face. 

Richard did not dare to think Francis beautiful, not when he knew full how Francis might torment him if he were to exude any hint of ardour. Yet when Francis’ eyes blinked open and met his, he knew that he shared in the very sentiment of the moment. 

Slowly, quietly, Francis moved to meet him in the softest of kisses, lips lingering a hair’s breath away when they parted once more. 

Richard’s hands moved to his hips to steady him as he leant more of his weight into him. They settled.  
Just like that. 

Francis’ cheek rested against Richard’s jaw as they both breathed in the weight of what they had just done. This was no chance encounter. It could not possibly be misconstrued for anything but what they dreaded and yearned for most. 

Richard felt helpless.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi,  
> This is my first fic I've ever posted on ao3.  
> Feel free to leave a comment or some feedback! Comments give me life.
> 
> This story just came to me when I was sitting around one day and instead of just constructing it in my head, I decided to open a word document and type it up instead.  
> I kind of went on a little plot frenzy actually, and did up the plot for the next 7 or so chapters. I really want to turn this into an ot6 story sometime down the line, but I'm not really sure if I'll ever be motivated enough to write it all up. Here's the pitch: it'll probably stay pretty Francis/Richard based in the beginning, but I want to try and explore their changing dynamics as a group as they start to open up to each other more. 
> 
> Please let me know if you're interested in reading more!
> 
> Peace ✌️


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